He always thought his heart was too delicate;
It was transparent, glassine, a window pane
Framed in soft petals and tears made from rain.

He lived in fear that it would shatter, unfit
For the world he was unapologetically thrown in
Amongst the chaotic, massive, earthly din

That spelled him into singular being, all alone,
A creature woven in fear and inaction
That once dared to chance interaction.

The outcome of this he couldn't have known,
For the true reason his heart was undone
Wasn't the splintering of glass or ambition.

It wasn't until he collected each every part
He saw what remained for what it truly is:
Only disassembled and altogether his.

Mechanical, but still, no less of a heart,
All it suffered was a little rust
And side effects of too much lust.